


Naming Conventions ~~or~~ Set a Spell

by Dart



Series: MI6 Cafe December Anon Prompt Gift Exchange [4]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond - All Media Types
Genre: Hell Hath No Fury Like Q, M/M, Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-28
Updated: 2019-12-28
Packaged: 2021-02-25 03:15:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22009087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dart/pseuds/Dart
Summary: Wherein James Bond is a stupid cocky arse and Q can’t stand him. Okay, so Q loves him, but you wouldn’t know that. Q has settled for wanting to keep the stupid cocky arse alive. Because he loves him.
Relationships: James Bond/Q
Series: MI6 Cafe December Anon Prompt Gift Exchange [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1571083
Comments: 23
Kudos: 103
Collections: Mi6 Cafe Prompt Fills





	Naming Conventions ~~or~~ Set a Spell

**Author's Note:**

> Sweet Mother of Formatting problems, sorry it’s all kinds of mess. I’m working on it.

**I’ll call you by a name all right**

Even if Q didn’t get a pulse-like warning against his sternum—a handy type of advanced tech that—the unnatural quiet that fell over Q-branch and the reek of cocky arse would have let him know that 007 had returned in all his cocky glory, the insolent arse. If the overweening abs-for-brains felt the temperature drop, he paid it no mind, the oblivious sod. It was a wonder he’d stayed alive this long the Let-Me-Just-Blow-Up-This-Building-While-I’m-Still-Inside git. 

Q did not look up from the screen on his standing desk. He would be damned if he’d give _James Fucking Bond_ a single unearned glance. Besides, he didn’t have to look to know exactly how 007 was standing, Q had dubbed it the “I am a giant childish lout who breaks everyone’s toys, just imagine the cock on me. Go on.” Stance 

_Fucker._

“Equipment?” Q asked.

If smug was a sound, it would surely be the sound of this absolute walnut saying, “Lost.”

Q noted that the Q-Branch exodus had begun in earnest.

“Prototype?” Q asked.

“Destroyed.”

“You were warned,” Q said in a frosty voice that would have cleared the room if his attentive staff hadn’t already made for the hills.

Q heard the doors _snick_ shut. At least everyone not named Double O— _now there’s an idea_ —everyone who wasn’t an agent had the sense to flee the area. _Christ, he really was a genius sometimes._

Q raised an eyebrow.

007 raised him a “you don’t know the first thing about how it is in the _field_.”

As if this were some sort of shitty poker game, no matter, Q certainly had an _ace_ up his sleeve. Of a sort.

Wait. Had that inadequate cucumber really just accused <title redacted> <name redacted> of <realm redacted> now known as The Quartermaster of MI6 of “you don’t know the first thing about how it is in the _field_.”

Even now, Q still sometimes wakes with the smell of brimstone, spellfire, and blood in his nose, of everything singed, and chokes on it, like it was last week, like it was yesterday, like it was this century. The ubiquitous tea is as much to mask the rare but necessary calming draught as it is to deliver the all-important caffeine. It’s a particular mix of Earl Gray, and he is extremely bitchy about its preparation because he has _taste._

“Well?” Bond challenged.

Oh this fucker had earned eye contact all right, and Q gave it to him. “You are the most conceited prick on this side of the Five Hells.”

“Careful lad, your spots are showing. I’m not up on comics.”

“That’s not a _graphic novel_ reference, **00-Never-Catch-A-Green-Light-Again**.”

“You don’t know how it is.”

“I know exactly how it is, **00-Due-For-A-Psych-Evaluation**.”

Q slipped the length of polished alder, his _ace,_ back up his sleeve.

00–00–00

James Bond had been expecting the usual dressing down, had braced for it, but Q hadn’t tried to poison him; hadn’t threatened him with, well, _anything;_ hadn’t even raised his voice. Maybe Q was losing his touch. Maybe he was getting soft on Bond. Maybe Bond could capitalize on that. Bond should definitely capitalize on that.

Bond smoothly morphed from the lazily arrogant jutted hip to the prominent chest and head tilt, he knew he exuded sex appeal, he practiced.

00–00–00

Bond used the smarmy “my mission is to fuck you” voice. “Now Q, how about we step into your office, try something new…”

 _“Was that an eyebrow sex waggle?!”_ Q’s mind shrieked.

“…and forget all about this little misunderstanding.”

“Did you just try a…piss poor come-on, on me, your superior officer?”

Bond oozed closer. The man was offensively sexy. _Bastard._

He leaned in and said, “You look a little frustrated, Q, maybe I could alleviate some of this pent up…energy for you.”

Q said, “By your smarmy tone and your complete lack of respect for personal space—”

Bond leaned in closer and breathed on Q’s neck.

Q cocked his elbow. “Two seconds to a cracked rib,” he warned.

Bond backed up, but just.

Q continued, “Am I correct in assuming your”—waved hand—“whatever that nonsense was, you’re suggesting that we—no I can’t even imagine, what are you suggesting?”

“Whatever turns you on, Q. You seem so…frustrated.”

Q had been mentally checking off seduction maneuvers since Bond started in with _the smarmy sex voice._ All he needed was a lip lick and he’d have a BINGO on the Seduction Bingo Cards he was most certainly not aware the Minions pulled out on slow nights.

”Flawless…missions and intact…equipment turns me on,” Q said.

“I’ve got a flawless—”

Q cut him off. “Do let me know how that frustration works out for you, **00-Never-Come-Again**.”

“I’d be happy to show you.”

“Be sure to head up to M’s office for your debrief, **00-Please-Repeat-Every-Instruction-For-Me**.”

00–00–00

007 went to M’s office for his debrief. He was supposed to report there first, but he always went to see Q first since, well, he didn’t know why, he just did. Maybe riling Q up was a habit, like drinking until he passed out after a tough mission or any of the other self destructive habits Psych was always hoping to grill him on.

”Have a seat, 007. Be seated,” Mallory said.

It appeared to be a typical debrief and yet…

”How odd,” Bond thought, “M has repeated himself 17 times. How odd.”

Bond gave a great shake of his head. _Now he was doing it_.  
  
“Report to Medical for a Psych Evaluation, 007,” M said.

“Sir?!”

”You’re grounded until you pass. Now go to medical for your Psych Eval.”

“On what grounds?”

“Do I need to repeat myself?”

00–00–00

Bond hit every red light on the way home. It was all downhill from there. He changed and went to a bar. The women didn’t interest him much tonight, but there was a bloke with dark curly hair and a slight build that had caught his eye. Soon enough he followed Bond to the loo and proceeded to well, it should have been an excellent blow job, the technique was there, but Bond just wasn't feeling it. Which was strange since he had to practically _feel it_ on command for work. _What the fuck._

Bond pulled apologetically on the dark curls. _Fucking hell, he looked c_ _restfallen_.

“I’m sorry!” the bloke said 

_Christ did James Bond feel guilty?!_ He pulled him up, “You were perfect,” Bond growled. “You’ve been so good for me. Would you like to come now?”

“Yes! God!”

James Bond would be damned if everyone had to leave unsatisfied, and he proceeded to blow the poor bloke’s mind, much to his future partners’ eventual dismay. Eh, it was good practice. 

00–00–00

James Bond was such an insolent jerk. Q couldn't love him. He kept those tender thoroughly besotted feelings so buried deep deep down under everything. Q couldn't love him, Q could only keep him alive. Q screamed into his pillow until his cat whapped him on the head. 

00–00–00

What was **00-Decaf-And-Rubbery Eggs** doing in his Branch? Wanting to inflict his misery on someone else most likely. “ **00-Crying-Baby-Magnet-Fly-Coach-With-Least-Legroom-Possible** , stop harassing my minion at once!” 

Bond gave him a _Who Me?_ look.

“ **00-Even-Dogs-Won’t-Make-Up-To-You-When-You’re-Holding-A-Bacon-Butty,** out of my sight!” 

00–00–00

It was one thing when Q wouldn’t call him by his name or even his call sign, but Q wouldn’t even look at him. He was starting to feel like a flower wilting without the sun. (One part of him was certainly wilting.) 

00–00–00

Q was in a bit of a snit. The Budget meeting ran over because of course it fucking did. Q ducked into the locker room closest to the range and walked in on…the sort of nonsense only 00s got up to. 

008 was…doing that thing Q called Arrogant Jackass Stance #3. “I heard you’re losing your touch, Bond.”

Q’s snit was now full blown.

008 continued because he had the situational awareness and sense of self preservation of a turnip, “I heard Mummy is going to tie you to his apron strings. You’ve been a bad boy and if you keep it up they’re going to stick you on desk duty.”

Bond had the Death Stare #47 going.

Q quickly went through his list of missing tech. Was there anything Bond could have on his person that would fry 008 with lasers? Not that he wouldn’t deserve it, but Christ the mess, not to mention the bloody paperwork.

“I suppose you’d rather Mummy tie you to his desk.”

”You are quite tiresome Jeffries. I don’t even know who you’re talking about.” 

“We all see the way Q looks at you.”

And Q’s snit went nuclear. 

“008, not that you’ll have that title much longer, your situational awareness is appalling. Your lack of respect for senior management is HR Form 23 worthy.”

008 grimaced.

“Whether 007 is or is not in the doghouse has nothing to do with you. Unless you’d like to take his place? Should I look more closely at your AARs? Would you like to speak to Mitchell about what happens when you garner the negative attention of your Quartermaster?

“Shit.”

”Oh you’ll wish it was only deep shit you were in. 007 is at the top of his game. His reprimand does not concern you.” Q paused. “At least it had better not.”

“No, Quartermaster.” And then more quietly, “Please don’t make me talk to Mitchell.” He shuddered. 

_Children._ Backstabbing children.

Q said very clearly, “007 is _mine._ To equip and mine to reprimand in the way I see fit.”

“Yes, Q. He’s yours. Completely and utterly yours.”

“Now since you are clearly looking for an arse beating by your frankly…” Q trailed off for a few moments. “Frankly suicidal behavior. I’m going to add a full psych evaluation to the week of hand-to-hand with the Junior Agent trios.”

“Thank you Quartermaster,” 008 said and then he got the hell out of there

“How do you do that glowy thing with your eyes?” Bond asked, “Are you testing contact lenses?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Q said.

There was the awkwardest of silences. 

“Q, about—“ James began. 

“You show me disrespect. But that’s not a shock since you’re an utter twat. You destroy my equipment intentionally. No matter how much time I spend on it. No matter that it is meant to save your life if the need calls for it. What I can’t deal with is you dying because you are an unrepentant stupid cocky arse.” Q yanked on his hair in frustration. “I can give you reminders until you learn your lesson. You don’t have to respect me, 007, but by God I can make you fear me. If that’s what it takes. If it keeps you alive and on this side of the dirt that much longer.” 

Bond looked like he was trying to figure out where an odd smell was coming from. “Did you fry some wires?”

“Excuse me?”

Bond inhaled again, “It smells like ozone but…is that burnt tin?”

“Did you listen to a word I said?!”

“I do respect you, Q.”

“On what planet is _your behavior_ respectful?”

Bond made what Q charitably called his thinking face.

“Your actions speak very loudly. That you do not respect me one bit.”

“I come see you first.” Bond said.

“I have never understood why.”

Bond shrugged. “Maybe we should go for a walk.”

00–00–00

They went for a walk and stopped in a coffee shop. Just as they sat down, a baby started crying and Q thought “here we go, shoot me now”, but then James Fucking Bond was speaking to the harried mother, and then picked up the baby and cuddled it and it quit crying. Like fucking magic. Which was bullshit because Q had actual magic and babies loathed him. The baby giggled. And Q said, “I’ll be damned.”

00–00–00

Once they got back to James’ flat, James said, “You’ve been doing something to me, controlling me somehow. Normally I’d kill someone for that. But I…trust you. Which is good since I’m apparently _yours.”_

“I can either love you or I can keep you alive. So I channel all that energy all the Me-ness into your tech and intel and then you shit on it.”

“Ah…that’s not exactly true.” 

Q made a strangled sound. “It is true! You intentionally lose and destroy it!” 

“Your tech is very attractive in a shiny manner of speaking. I Do lose some things In the field.” 

“Komodo dragon?” 

“Really did eat my gun. Yes. But the others…I keep.” 

And then Bond showed Q his honest-to-god practically a shrine to Q’s tech. 

“This is positively worshipful, James.” 

The spells fell away. 

“I’ll allow it,” Q said as he flicked his cape and sat down regally. 

He beckoned James down for a kiss.

“That cape is new” James said. 

“It’s positively ancient, and clearly I didn’t kiss you enough if…” He kissed James like he damn well meant it. And if he growled a “Mine”, it wasn’t like it was a secret after the locker room. 

“You lifted whatever it was,” James said, “I feel lighter.”

”I can’t believe you’re still talking.”

James smirked and said, “You better put your back into it.” 

“Shall we make sure they’re all lifted?” Q asked.

”Great idea! I could really go for some eggs! I haven’t had a non-rubbery egg since you…whatever it is you did.” 

“James Bond! If you do not start stripping me out of these clothes and putting that wicked tongue of yours to good use, you will find out that hell literally hath no fury like ME!” 

And James grinned and swept Q up in his arms. “I love you a little feisty, though I’m not going to lie, when you direct all that scary feisty at someone else, ungh, that turns me on. So hard.” 

“Ask the Minions for the “Holy Shit Our Supreme Leader is a Dragon” tape. 

James raised his eyebrows. 

“I’m not an actual dragon. But that’ll fit the bill.” 

“Think we can watch it here?”

”I rather like the idea of getting you obscenely turned on and then making you wait and wait until we get home.” 

James rolled his eyes. “You must have loved these past weeks then.”

”It’s okay, James, you can come whenever you please now.” 

“Oh, I don’t know,” James said, “I’d rather thought you might… okay, just imagine me fucking some poor bastard into the mattress and I can’t come until you say, ‘Now, James,’ in my ear.” 

Q dragged James into the bedroom by his ridiculous ears and then proceeded to command him to orgasm a few more times than was strictly humanly possible. 

**Author's Note:**

> Every non-use of James’ name is actually Q layering on a curse. And they all stack up. 
> 
> Prompt: Bond steals Q's prized prototype and thoroughly destroys it; Q punishes him by refusing to use his name for at least a month. Instead he uses various epithets, "Double-oh Destructo" or "Commander Blonde" etc


End file.
